“Oh, it is you!” Walton drew the heavy door to after him as he came out and locked it. Then they stood together on the sidewalk in the faint rays from a gaslight on the corner near by.
“Yes, I've been looking for you, Fred. I went to your house; your father told me you might be here. Can't we go in the bank?”
Fred Walton stared. His face was rigid; beads of sweat stood on his brow and cheeks; the cigar in his mouth shook.
“It is terribly hot in there,” he said, after a pause. “I was looking over the books, and—almost fainted. I didn't think it worth while to unscrew the rear windows, and not a breath of air is stirring in the beastly hole.”
“We might walk on to my office; it is always cool. I never bother to shut the windows, even before a rain.”
“Yes, if—if you wish it, Wynn; that is, if you wish to—to see me.”
“Yes, I want to talk to you, Fred.”
They walked side by side along the pavement. Walton had his hat off, and was wiping his face with his handkerchief. Once his foot struck against some object, and he almost fell. Something like an oath of impatience escaped his lips as he drew himself up and caught the slow, deliberate step of his companion.
Reaching the door of his office, Dearing unlocked it, pushed it open, and they entered the little reception-room in the dark. The doctor struck a match and lighted a lamp on a table, and pointed to a rocking-chair. “Take a seat, Fred.” A cold smile which gave his face almost a wry look lay on his firm mouth as he himself sat down near a table on which lay some books and magazines. He had not removed his eyes from his companion, who, hat in hand, was settling heavily into the big chair. “I've got an unpleasant duty before me, Fred—darned unpleasant, because we've been friends all our lives, and—”
“That's all right, Wynn, go ahead.”